You of All People
by Donteatacowman
Summary: Beatrice/Shannon. Startlingly, George is taken as an early sacrifice, and Shannon is left devastated until Beatrice pays her a visit. For a small price, she offers the lowly furniture a guaranteed trip to the Golden Land, but is it worth it without her fiancé beside her?


Shannon sighed, placing her chin in her hands as she stared at the torrential ocean waves surrounding Rokkenjima. Naturally, she was in her work clothes, as she always was on the island, but they were in an odd state of disarray. Her apron was torn, her hat was missing, and streaks of what looked like red paint were splayed across her front. Her mascara was dribbling down in thin streaks on her cheeks, and she idly brushed away a few crumbles of it without blinking. She was, of course, soaked to the bone from the storm whose clouds covered all but the smallest fraction of the sun. She didn't care.

That glimpse of daylight showed that the sun was setting, and it felt appropriate enough. It was too dark of an end for the day that only seemed to have begun a moment ago. A ring on her finger glinted bloodred, reflecting the sunlight's tint. Shannon gathered her knees to her chest and tried not to sob.

George's face… that blank stare would haunt her for the rest of her life and beyond. She had only gotten a glimpse at the cracked glasses and bloodied skull before Battler had pulled her away, but it was enough.

That man…

Was it wrong of her to feel a sense of betrayal? That he had promised her the impossible and failed to deliver? She knew furniture like her would never get a happy ending, especially not something so grand as marriage to her master; it was cliché, a fantasy, an impossibility.

At the same time, Shannon felt a deep sense of guilt. She ought to be mourning her fiancé on his own merit as a companion and a lover—why should she focus on how his death would impact her personally? How greedy could she get?

And it was true, that there seemed to be something empty in the idea of not seeing his smiling face or hearing his adorably awkward laughter ever again. What was the damsel supposed to do when her knight in shining armor was killed by the dragon?

Lost in her thoughts and deafened by the rainfall, the maid didn't notice the soft footsteps behind her. A hand fell on her shoulder and she started. Craning her neck up, she could see only the bosom and profile of a woman, hair perfectly and elegantly arranged, with an mien of royalty about her. Instantly, Shannon moved to a lopsided crouch and pulled up her skirts a few centimeters in a hasty curtsy. "Beatrice-sama-!" she said, her expression awed and apologetic as it always was in her presence.

The witch before her did not react, simply staring out at the dark horizon as Shannon had been moments before. Her gaze darted downwards for a split second—not focusing on Shannon, but on the rocks below the cliff they were on—before her back straightened stiffly and she once more looked out on the ocean.

Shannon didn't know what to do, or why Beatrice had graced her with her presence, so she kept quiet and waited for orders. A few long minutes passed, just enough time for Shannon's mind to wander back to her grief, when the silence was broken by Beatrice's voice.

"It's nearly twilight." Neither the woman's face nor tone betrayed her reasons for saying so, which made Shannon even more hesitant.

"…Which one, Beatrice-sama?" She meant to speak softly but it came out much more like a squeak.

A smirk played at Beatrice's lips, the first hint of an expression to appear there tonight. "The one that marks the close of an evening. Do you think you'll survive this one, Shannon-chan?"

The furniture didn't expect the term of endearment. Still, she made an effort to keep her voice level and serious. "That is up to you, milady."

The smirk turned into a grin, and the witch cackled. "True! True! Shouldn't you be bowing at my feet and begging me for mercy then?"

"I will if those are your orders," Shannon said. She felt like she was choking. "But with all respect, I don't see the point if George-sama is gone."

"That mouse?" Beatrice waved a hand dismissively, her pipe (somehow still lit despite the rain) trailing thin swirls of smoke in the air. "He's no great loss. Besides, haven't I told you you'll see him again in the next game? Or even in the Golden Land?"

"Yes, Beatrice-sama." It really was a whisper that time, made even less audible by the way Shannon seemed to direct it at the ground.

The witch made as if to laugh again, but looking down at the maid, the chuckle died in her throat. "Oh, come now," she said briskly after a pause, kneeling beside Shannon and tilting her chin up with the edge of her pipe. "Save your tears for when you're dying. Enjoy the sunset and my presence. I don't often treat other people's furniture to my hospitality, you know." Beatrice's other hand came up to offer Shannon a hot cup of black tea where only thin air had been before. The rain around them stopped, and Shannon looked up to see a break in the clouds just above their heads. Magic, she knew without asking. To keep them dry.

She took the tea with trembling hands, forcing out a "thank you very much" before sipping at it and forcing it down. She was queasy as it was, even just from the red streaks on her uniform. The tea slid down her throat easily enough, though, and miraculously both calmed her stomach and seemed to warm her to her core. Her shaking slowly stopped.

"There you go," Beatrice said with a chuckle so kind and lighthearted, it was difficult to picture the same woman gleefully slaughtering the sacrifices just an hour ago. She patted Shannon's head twice as if praising a pet, then kneeled beside her and tucked her legs underneath her long petticoats. "Now then, I'll make you a deal. Trade me a smile, and I'll make sure you survive to the last twilight."

Shannon's voice got a little louder. "I'll obey whatever you order, Beatrice-sama, but I don't like being mocked." For the first time, Shannon met Beatrice's eyes directly, though to her dismay the witch only looked more amused.

"Of course you will, furniture." She was dismissive at best. "I know that. Isn't it even more gracious, then, for me to offer you a deal like an equal?" And there was the familiar predator-viewing-its-prey toothy smile.

"You musn't go to all that trouble for someone like me, milady." But obediently, Shannon gently smiled, trying her best to be charmed by Beatrice's playfulness and to let thoughts of George slip from her mind momentarily.

"There you are!" Beatrice seemed to be put in such high spirits just from that little smile that Shannon thought it strange, even suspicious. "Such a good girl! Ah, if only you were my own furniture, even during the daytime! But the sun's nearly set now, so you belong to me nonetheless."

Shannon nodded her head, demure as always. "Is there anything else you need from me?"

"Just your company." The witch slowly sobered again, conjuring up another teacup for herself and peering into the steaming liquid.

"…Why me?" Shannon asked after taking another sip of her own tea. "Especially now that George-sama is dead…. I'm nobody."

Beatrice shook her head. "You may be furniture, but you're a good deal brighter than most on this island. Your taste in men excluded." A snicker that earned a frown from Shannon. "More bearable, too. You actually show me the proper respect I deserve. You could teach most of these dimwits a thing or two." She took another long sip, resulting in a louder slurp than one would expect from someone so refined. "And… I suppose since you know about the ritual, we're on the same page. You're one in a million to someone like me. No anti-magic toxin to speak of."

"You're flattering me," Shannon replied to her tea. Beatrice tapped her chin with the pipe again to make her raise her head.

"I don't flatter. It's a waste of time to butter up humans, the pathetic lot of them." She smiled sweetly at Shannon as if she'd not just insulted her entire species. "People do what they want to, anyway. Take Kinzo, the old fart. No matter whether I stroked his ego or seemed to hate him, he never for a second considered getting me off this island." Downing the rest of her tea, Beatrice dropped the cup off the cliff's edge and watched it tumble down and shatter on the rocks below. She looked grim again, staring down at it and not saying any more.

Shannon tentatively reached over to place her hand on Beatrice's comfortingly. Beatrice didn't look up, but she did hold Shannon's hand and give it a squeeze, a small token of thanks, as if they really were equals.

"Milady," Shannon said kindly, but was cut off as Beatrice suddenly twisted and embraced her. The maid froze up, surprised and scared. Beatrice on her own part was as confused as Shannon was, since she'd not really intended to do that. But the young woman's hold on her was soft and warm and calming, sensations Beatrice was not used to in the least. So not only did she not let go, but she pressed her lips against Shannon's in one swift movement.

At first Shannon thought this was some odd way of killing her, given how she had lost all capacity to breathe as soon as Beatrice kissed her. But the witch made no move to hurt her and she felt no pain; on the contrary, an ecstasy that she'd never felt before overwhelmed her senses. Unlike George's endearing but clumsy kisses, this one was enthralling, and the witch's body seemed to fit against hers like two puzzle pieces. In response to this overpowering and mind-boggling joy that came from such a simple, mundane thing as a kiss (though at the same time not mundane at all, for no word could describe the Golden Witch Beatrice any less accurately), Shannon ignored any protests her better judgment made. In fact, she only pulled Beatrice further into her arms and reciprocated the kiss enthusiastically.

The witch pulled away, to Shannon's simultaneous relief and dismay, but kept her face mere centimeters from Shannon's. "Furniture," she said in a commanding but breathless voice, "Make me forget the old man for an hour."

What could Shannon do but obey?

She lost track of what was happening as slim, pale fingers scrabbled at lace and linens and dove beneath them. Shannon didn't know if she was successful in fulfilling Beatrice's order, but Beatrice, for her part, had wiped all thoughts of the maid's former fiancé from her mind. All she was concentrating on was the witch's hot breath against her skin, the lovely hands cupping her breasts, the woman's dress that was coming undone and slipping off at her shoulders, the teasing glimpses of thigh that peeked out now and again as they moved about on the grass. The last ray of sunlight hit Beatrice's hair, which was messily coming undone already due to Shannon's tangling her fingers in it, and made it glint gold just as the sun vanished from the horizon.

Had Shannon not believed in magic before, this moment surely would have convinced her of it once and for all.

As it was, Shannon was preoccupied in trying to restrain her moans, shy 'til the end, as Beatrice's hands crept slyly up her legs and beneath her skirts, teasing her in a way she hadn't known was possible. There was no escape from the witch—every part of her, from her head to her toes, was captured by Beatrice's touch. Her kisses, even nibbles, which made Shannon gasp, and the way the woman straddled her, hiding Shannon's nakedness beneath her flowing dress, nearly made her shriek in delight. Only the slightest sense of common decency was left in her that made her hold her tongue.

But it was increasingly hard to do so. The sensation of skin against skin made her shake, not nervously as before, but with pleasure, and she was baffled by the surging of pure bliss that increased with no end in sight. Yes—this was magic, a sort of magic she'd never heard of before, one that no one else had been able to show her.

She was once again left completely breathless as her hands clenched into the fabric of Beatrice's dress, her fingernails digging in so deeply that the witch would have little crescent-shaped red marks on her shoulder and chest for days to come. All Shannon could think to do was to gasp out "Beatrice-sama" over and over, louder each time, until the supernatural feeling built itself up to an unsustainable climax and shook her body with waves of pleasure. She could only just see Beatrice's eyes glowing with the same gold that she'd seen in the sunset, and Shannon knew they were experiencing the sensation together.

When it was over, Shannon was still clinging to Beatrice, panting, and the witch for her part didn't push her away. No, instead she kissed the mussed brown hair and cupped the girl's flushed cheek with what was perhaps the gentlest touch she'd given anybody in decades.

"W—wh—" Shannon stammered when she had the breath to, but Beatrice murmured a command to keep quiet and enjoy the moment, which she was content—though confused—to obey. In an almost nurturing way, the witch ran her hands through Shannon's hair to comb it, to which Shannon instinctively buried herself in Beatrice's chest in reply.

She was so happy. It was a mindless happiness, built on nothing but the senses and devoid of thought, but perhaps that was what made it so perfect. Maybe, Shannon thought as she let Beatrice move them into a more comfortable position, watching her gold curls bounce and entranced by the gold glimmer in her eyes, maybe this was the real Golden Land—

And then she was falling, tumbling down and down and down as the heavenly warmth in her arms burst into a cloud of delicate gold butterflies that fluttered up and away from her, exposing her to the cold sea breeze and the freezing sharp rocks that pierced her back and tore her remaining clothing and shredded her blushing skin—

And the butterflies reconvened at the top of the cliffside and grouped together to once more form the Golden Witch, whose devilish sneer almost distracted from her sad eyes.

"This sacrifice completes the second twilight," she said to no one but the stormy sea. The hole in the clouds had healed itself, and her clothes were soaked through and clung to her, making her look far thinner and weaker than she normally appeared. Her hair hung in wet tangles around her face, but she didn't do a thing to magically dry herself off. She stared down at Shannon's corpse silently before turning with what was supposed to be a flourish but wound up more as an unimpressive, muddy dragging-of-petticoats. Her eyes were dull; there was no one here to impress anyway.

"You of all people," she murmured without looking back at the cliffside, "should know better than to trust a witch."


End file.
